


Vampires Never Have to Complain (of Living a Dull Circumstance)

by MAVEfm



Series: Le Velo Pour Deux [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), All Time Low, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 2005, A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bad Puns, Blood, Demons, Gen, Latin, Mild Gore, Takes place in 2005, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVEfm/pseuds/MAVEfm
Summary: “Okay, listen kid… What you saw? It wasn’t me okay? It was some psycho, who wasn’t me.”All the fear disappeared from the kid’s face, “Really,” His voice was flat.“Uh-huh,” Pete nodded, “I was… trying to defend myself.”“Defend yourself,” The kid repeated, as if he wasn’t facing a possible psychopath. “His body is literally torn to pieces. And his blood, is on your hands!”“I mean…” Pete looked down at his hands, frowning at his still black nails, “I guess you… caught me red-handed?” He gave the kid an attempt at a smile, showing off his over-large canines.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this was inspired by every pre-2010 horror movie starring Brendon Fraser

_Patrick-_

_I already told you this morning but I have a_

_three day shift at the ER._

_Enchiladas are in the fridge and you can call_

_me anytime :)_

_Love you,_

_Mom_

 

 

  * ****From the fridge of Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, 17, Junior at Lincoln High School, Chicago Illinois****



 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no telling the reason Pete Wentz had for leaving his dusty, crumb-littered apartment so quickly.

 

Maybe he had seen a rat, rats are pretty disgusting. Or maybe he had run out reruns of Conan to watch and just wasn’t feeling particularly eager to start on Jimmy Fallon.

 

It could have even been because of the kid with the ponytail that had burst through the fire escape window in a shattering of glass, clutching a wooden stake pointed directly at Pete’s heart. Yelling insults towards Pete’s hellbound family. Pete took offense at the insults toward his mother especially.

 

But really, there was just no telling.

 

“Goddamit! How the fuck do you people keep finding me?” Pete spat between his sharpened canines.

 

“ _contra lamian!”_ The Ponytail kid dug a small silver cross from his pocket and thrust it at Pete, who was thrown backward into the wall, leaving an ugly dent in the plaster. An old picture frame fell to the floor and shattered.

 

Pete stood and flinched when his back cracked, “Latin?” He asked, bewildered. “Really!?”

 

“Come and meet your _death,_ Chickensucker!” Ponytail readied the wooden stake, flipping it in his hand as an annoying way of displaying his skill. Pete rolled his eyes and reached for the front door handle, thanking his unlucky stars that it was nighttime.

 

“Did your grandpa teach you how to trash talk? I haven’t heard chickensucker in _what_? Forty years?” He burst out into hallway and raced toward the stairwell, his enhanced speed and stamina kept him light on his feet.

 

A light breeze tickled his face and made his jacket flap at his sides. He smiled, thinking he was home free.

 

Then he opened the door to the lobby.

 

 _“contra lamia!”_ Yet another cross was pushed into his face and Pete was rocketed back into the concrete stairs.

 

His spine cracked once more. “Fuck…” Pete gasped, his voice muted in pain, and he squinted up at the current source of his pain. A smirk traced its way across his attacker's face.

 

“You’re getting pretty predictable, mate.” The kid in front of him held out a hand. Pete took it.

 

“Calum…” He tried to smirk, instead, he winced, “Just can’t stay away, can you?”

 

“You know, Pete,” Calum checked his watch, “As much as I love our time together, I’m actually not here for you.” He pointed upward, indicating he was talking about Ponytail. “Anthony and his dear brother are taking their test to be first class, and I happen to be supervising.”

 

Pete stood slowly, wincing as the bones in his spine snap back into place. “Training to be- _ow- a_ big boy vampire hunters like you and Luke?”

 

Calum smiled sarcastically, “Honestly, I doubt he’ll pass, his brother is pretty good, but seriously who takes the stairs when you can just propel down the side of a building?” His eyebrows raised like this was a completely logical question, as if he did it in his free time. “Good call living on the 20th floor by the way.”

 

“Thanks,” Pete stretched, “Where’s Luke anyway?”

 

“With the brother, you should probably get out of here, the test ends at… oh, seven thirty, so just… stay away from the kid until then,” He took out his phone, which had started to ring a rather annoying pop song. “Just… try not to kill him, okay?” Then he disappeared, fleeing into the shadows like all hunters could. Pete made his way out of the building.

 

He made it onto the sidewalk and zipped up his jacket, grumbling all the way down the street. “Try not to kill him, okay?” He mocked Calum. “How about _you_ try and not kill someone when they trash your apartment.” Pete pulled a sour face and a homeless man that had been begging for change whimpered and hid his face in his big coat. “Puts his _foot_ through your TV…”

 

He snuck a glance over his shoulder.

 

‘Anthony’ was tailing him a couple yards back and Pete could hear his beating heart, along with the warm blood that flowed through its four chambers.

 

Calum was right, this kid was an idiot.

 

If he was any good, there would be no way for Pete to even distinguish a blood type from him.

 

Pete had known Calum for five years and during that time he hadn’t even heard a pulse from the guy.

 

He ducked into an alley that connected to the other side of the block.

 

Maybe he could lose _Anthony_ in the more suburban areas, Pete mulled over a possible plan, _get him tangled in some old ladies rosebushes._ Pete rounded the corner, snickering, and the pink lights of _La Noche_ nightclub slapped him the face, and he could feel the beat of the music through the sidewalk.

 

Pete glanced up at the rooftops, searching for any sign of Calum, who was undoubtedly watching the kid’s progress.

 

A group of girls was gathered outside of _La Noche,_ talking loudly and stumbling into each other, laughing and throwing cups at passing cars. Pete was suddenly struck with an idea.

 

He pushed his way into their small gathering and the girls laughed at him, pawing at his hair and and making fun of his eyeliner. The alcohol in their breath clung to his every sense, making him almost throw up as he stared them all down, their drunken state made it easy for Pete to hypnotize them with his eyes.

 

“Hey,” Pete spoke, smooth and sultry, to the girls, and they leaned in, “Do you see that alleyway?” He pointed in the direction he had come from, and the girls nodded, slow and sluggish, transfixed by Pete.

 

He softly grabbed the nearest girl by the chin between his thumb and forefinger. She licked her lips. “A boy with a ponytail is going to come through it, do you think you can slow him down?”

 

The girl he was holding brushed a clumsy hand down his face, “Anything for you, _chico.”_ Her accent, a thick latin purr. She pushed her face closer to his, tempting him with the thick blood in her jugular. Pete’s stomach growled and he complied with the woman, pushing his face closer.

 

The group of girls around them giggled in excitement and pressed in closer, running their hands up Pete’s back and playing with his hair, asking for a turn.

 

Hunger scratched at his insides. He opened his mouth and his teeth rested against the woman’s neck.

 

A flash of silver from the roof above him caught his attention.

Calum stood, his shadowy figure stark against the night sky, the way he stood, he must have been hefting a crossbow in Pete’s direction.

 

He understood.

 

If he bit this woman, Calum would kill him.

 

And _yet._

 

Pete pulled himself away and his hunger roared, the girls voiced their disappointment, their eyes wide and blank, reflecting the pink of the nightclub.

 

Pete took in a shaky breath, trying to regain his composure.

 

Then he brushed his finger down another girl’s cheek, she shivered and closed her eyes. “Thank you, ladies, for all of your help.” He turned away just as Anthony rounded the corner, and the girls’ attention became divided. They swarmed him and cooed over his hair, pulling his clothes and pinching his cheeks. Anthony tried, and failed to push through them, his expression one of pure bewilderment.

 

“You almost lost it back there.” Calum emerged from the shadows of an adjoining alleyway. Pete jumped and clenched his fists from a sudden shock of adrenaline.

 

“Yeah well… it’s not my fault the whole city’s been a bit dry lately,” Pete kept walking, trying to slow his rapid pulse. “My dealer’s been running late.”

 

“Whole city, huh?” Calum took out his phone and typed out a number, “I’m gonna tell Luke about this, just don’t lose yourself again and we won’t have any problems.”

 

“Whatever,” Pete mumbled, and Calum disappeared.

 

“Hey, asshole!” Anthony yelled after him.

 

“Oh, so I’m not a chickensucker anymore?” Pete turned to walk backward. Anthony had finally shaken off the girls and they followed behind, waving at Pete and blowing kisses. Pete smiled and waved back, then snapped his fingers to break the spell.

 

They halted and looked around, confused at their surroundings.

 

Anthony grumbled and stuffed the wooden stake in his back pocket and fiddled with the leather strap slung across his chest.

 

A crossbow.

 

Pete swore under his breath.

 

“You know what?” I think I’ll just drop you in some rosebushes.” Pete used his speed, and suddenly, he was next to Anthony, pulling the crossbow from his grip and possibly breaking his fingers. Which was illustrated by his short cry of pain and the single arrow that shot upward, Pete hoped it hit one of the crows that nested outside his apartment. Those bitches had been keeping him awake for the past year.

 

He broke the crossbow over his knee and threw it into the street, then grabbed Anthony by one arm and dragged him behind, his speed made it impossible for Anthony to struggle.

 

The city went by in a blur.

 

It’s a known myth that vampires could turn into bats, or fly for that matter, but they could glide, and it brought Pete a special type of joy to see Anthony’s face contort in terror as Pete jumped onto a trashcan and kept going up.

 

They had finally reached the suburbs as Anthony finally seemed to get his bearings. Pete only continued to dangle him over the rooftops, laughing as he clipped a chimney.

 

Anthony swung himself upwards and grabbed Pete by the back of the knees and rustled his other arm out of Pete’s grip and climbed him like a monkey.

 

“Oooookay,” Pete dodged past the branches of an extremely tall oak tree. “This is really _weird,_ I am so dropping you!”

 

Anthony squeezed a hand around one of Pete’s shoulders and the other slapped him on the neck, poking him with something sharp and cold.

 

He instantly felt woozy and nauseous and they both crashed through the roof of a screened in porch. They hit the floor and Pete could feel two of his ribs crack.

 

“Goddammit!” Pete spit blood and Anthony rolled away.

 

They both stood, taking defensive positions, ready for a fight.

 

“It’s only three AM,” Anthony panted, “The test said I have to either kill or incapacitate a vampire and then I would be promoted to first class, I wonder if they’ll put me on the council if I bring in a rabid one.”

 

“Oh, yeah, maybe your daddy will finally love you,” Pete growled and rubbed his neck where Anthony had poked him. “What the fuck did you do?”

 

“Lycan blood, bitch!” Anthony sneered, “You know what that does to vampires?”

 

“Lycan-” Pete’s ribs cracked back into place and he groaned.

 

“My mother was a Witch, she taught me a few things about blood and vampires-”

 

“Oh yeah, I’m sure she was great,” Pete interrupted, then gave a sharp cry of pain as his spine cracked painfully, traveling down his arms and legs. “What the _fuck!”_ A faint buzzing filled his ears and he could feel his teeth sharpen and his nails followed, turning black and growing impossibly sharp.

 

“Here’s what’s going to happen asshole,” Anthony dug the wooden stake from his back pocket, frowning at its now broken tip, “You’re going to get rabid, tear around this little neighborhood you so graciously dropped us in, maybe kill a couple dogs and old ladies, I don’t care. Then, I’ll jump in and kill you!” A pounding headache surfaced in Pete’s skull, throbbing with every word Anthony said.

 

“God, _shut up!”_ Pete growled and clutched his head in his hands, doubling over in pain. The buzz grew louder and louder until he couldn’t form a complete thought.

 

In the distance, he could hear Anthony let out a short bark of laughter and then the only thing Pete could see, or hear, or even taste, was the blood.

 

The sound of Anthony’s beating filled his ears and the smell of iron seemed to permeate the air and Pete could see it all.

 

A block away, a father drove through the night, his two daughters slept peacefully in the backseat. Pete could almost taste their blood in his throat. He could hear the pulse of the boy in the house next to them, and his struggle to awaken as the noise from Pete and Anthony’s struggle had roused him from his dreamless sleep.

 

Then there was the kid in front of him.

 

Anthony's heart beat with excitement, thinking he had won.

 

The buzzing took over his every sense and there was a moment of calm as Pete leaped towards Anthony, foaming at the mouth, in which everything was still. He watched in slow motion as Anthony’s face mocking face shifted to one of pure terror.

 

Then there was no thought.

 

Thick clots of blood slid down his throat and dripped down his chin and neck, it covered his hands and bits of skin and muscle got caught under his fingernails and his breathing is heavy and **he is in control.**

 

Then Calum is there, whispering Latin under his breath and pushing Pete to the ground, pressing a cross to his chest that burns him through his clothes. Pete snarls and claws at him and then the buzzing is gone and he rolls over onto his hands and knees, throwing up a black liquid that tastes like pennies.

 

It mixes with the blood.

 

Anthony’s body is a broken mess on the floor and Calum swears under his breath, his face is bruised and his curly hair goes in every direction. He kneels next to the body, “Lycan’s blood,” He digs a syringe from Anthony’s back pocket and examined it. “I knew he would try something stupid.”

 

Pete’s hands shake, covered in blood. His nails remain black and sharp, “He did something to me,” Pete’s voice came out raspy and shaking, “I would never… I wouldn’t-”

 

“It’s okay,” Calum soothed, turning Anthony’s blank face away from Pete. He pushed the mouth open with his cross and furrowed his brow. “It looks like you managed to turn him even when you were ripping his throat open,” He winced. “Oh shit, Pete, I’m sorry, this isn’t your fault-”

 

“Oh _god I-”_

 

“It’s _okay,_ Pete,” Calum reached for him, then froze, his guard raising. He looked behind Pete and stood. “Luke, stop.”

 

Pete twisted around to see Luke, leaning back on his hands, his nails clicking on the floor.

 

Luke stood over him, holding his crossbow close to Pete’s blood covered face.

 

“He still killed someone, Calum.” Luke wouldn’t look Pete in the eye. “Lycan blood or no.”

 

Calum took a step towards them, “That doesn’t matter Luke,” He placed a hand over Luke’s on the crossbow. “Remember, he helped us keep Michael alive, we have a debt to repay.”

 

They went quiet as a small crash came from inside the house, followed by a groan.

 

Luke glanced at Calum. Then lowered his crossbow and nodded at the body. “A dead body is still a turned body, we can’t take him back.”

 

“Then Pete will take care of him,” Calum whispered, “Right Pete?”

 

Pete nodded, staring at his nails, still black and ragged. “I know a place I can take him,” Calum nodded. “Before we had people in blood banks, vampires would take their victims there.”

 

Luke brushed past them both, strapping his crossbow onto his back and exiting the porch, nearly slamming the screen door behind him.

 

Calum started after him, “I’ll have to tell Anthony’s brother,” He gave Pete one more sympathetic look, then he was gone, out the door and into the night. Pete was left alone, shivering in a puddle of dark blood.

 

He would have to hurry, or the sun would rise and he would run out of time.

 

His hunger was gone.

 

The blood on his hands made him sick to his stomach. He stood, trying to wipe them on his jeans.

 

There was a small _click!_ from inside the house and the porch lights flickered on.

 

“Oh shit,” Pete froze, and the door opened.

 

* * *

 

 

_Microwave Pizza_

_toilet paper_

_Soap_

_an umbrella?_

_chips_

_cereal_

_toilet paper!_

_bread_

_peanut butter_

_TOILET PAPER_

 

 

****The shopping list of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, Vampire, physical age: 22, years alive: 82, Chicago, Illinois.** **

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a moment where they both stared at each other.

 

Pete, with his blood covered face and racing heartbeat.

 

The kid, with his messy ginger hair and hastily put on glasses.

 

He had obviously just woken up, and Pete could smell a small scrape on his knee from where he might have hit it on a table or chair in the dark.

 

The kid’s eyes went from Pete to the blood on his hands, to Anthony’s body then back to Pete in a matter of seconds, getting wider all the way. Then he said, in a somewhat squeaky voice, “I’m calling the cops.”

 

Pete, known for his charisma and Shakespearean way with words said: “What.”

 

He glanced at poor Anthony and the kid slammed the door shut. Pete scrambled after him, his nails scraping over the door handle. He bursts into the house and promptly trips over the leg of a chair, grabbing for the kid’s legs, who, in return, slides on the wood floor in his socks.

 

The kid grabs the landline from the kitchen counter and points it at Pete like a weapon, his finger poised over the number nine. “Don’t come any closer!”He squeaked, pushing up his glasses.

 

Pete stood, slow and steady, showing the kid his palms. “Okay, listen kid… What you saw? It wasn’t me, okay? It was some psycho, _who wasn’t me.”_

 

All the fear disappeared from the kid’s face, “Really,” His voice was flat.

 

“Uh-huh,” Pete nodded, “I was… trying to defend myself.”

 

“Defend yourself,” The kid repeated, as if he wasn’t facing a possible psychopath. “His body is literally torn to pieces. And his _blood,_ is on your hands!”

 

“I mean…” Pete looked down at his hands, frowning at his still black nails, “I guess you… caught me red-handed?” He gave the kid an attempt at a smile, showing off his over-large canines.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” The kid yelled angrily and punched in the number nine on the phone as his own little threat.

 

“Okay, got it, no puns!” Pete shook his head, “No need to be hasty!” He took a glance around the house, the only light coming from the single street lamp outside, and even that was struggling through the thick curtains. It illuminated the grade school art projects and school pictures that hung from the walls. All of the same little boy. In one, he sported a grin full of crooked teeth and frizzy hair, labeled [ Preschool ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/40b83dfb05205f4e449233ecdcffccaa/tumblr_o6amaktish1u4d8sao1_500.jpg), placed front and center.

 

It made Pete let out a small, breathy chuckle.

 

He turned back to the kid, who was squinting angrily at him, “Alright kid, how about… we handle this… like _adults!”_ At the last word he leaped forward, clutching the phone with white knuckles. The kid gave a small yell in surprise, then wrapped himself around the plastic device, his glasses falling sideways on his face.

 

They wrestled for a moment on the wood floor, Pete trying to keep his now sharp nails away from the kid’s fragile skin, who was gritting his teeth and holding onto the phone for dear life.

 

Pete squeezed the phone in his fist until he could feel it splinter between his fingers, the screen lit up as an incomprehensible string of numbers was typed. The kid's face went red with strain and his glasses fell to the floor.

 

Pete could feel them get crushed under his shoulder.

 

Then the phone was just metal and plastic in their hands, blown to bits by Pete’s strength. He let go, crawling backward and the kid copied him, standing up and taking a somewhat defensive position.

 

 _Jeez,_ Pete thought, _He must be shorter than me._

 

“Okay,” Pete looked him in the eye once again, trying to hypnotize him like he had the girls at _La Noche._ “You won’t call the cops-” He was interrupted by the crumpled up phone hitting him the face. “Ow!” He touched his face where he was hit in the classic oh-my-god-you-just-hit-me-in-the-face sort of way. “Jesus, what the hell man!?”

 

“Well, _first of all,”_ All the fear the kid had held earlier was gone, replaced by a thick shield of sarcasm that Pete could almost _smell._ “You crushed my glasses, which aren’t cheap, oh, and second of all, _you killed someone on my porch!”_

 

“It wasn’t my fault!” Pete yelled, frustrated, and the kid took a small step backward. “That guy did something to me!” He stared at the kid, breathing heavy. “He did something to me, okay? He was trying to kill _me,_ you were supposed to be _asleep!”_ His voice echoed low throughout the dim kitchen and the kid stood stock still. Pete furrowed his brow, “Kid?” He took a step forward, “You okay?”

 

The kid fell forward, softly snoring.

 

Pete tried to catch him as fast as he could, only for him to slip through Pete’s arms to the floor onto his face. “Whoops,” Pete felt his cheeks get hot. “Sorry dude…”

He took the kid under the arms and, turning him over, dragged him into the nearest chair near the dining table. He slumped as Pete put him on the edge of the seat and almost fell to the floor again, Pete grunted and pushed him back further, holding his hands in front of him as he backed away. “Please don’t ragdoll on me again…”

 

Slowly, he backed towards the front door.

 

“Okay…” He glanced behind himself to ensure he didn’t trip, “Just stay right there… I just have to get this dead guy off your porch… and we’ll never see each other again…” His back hit the door and he whipped around, sighing in relief.

 

The kid snored in, what Pete would like to think, congratulations. “That’s right buddy, _hasta luego.”_

 

Then he opened the door, and almost burst into flames.

 

The sun peaked above the house across the street, warming the cold of the night and creating morning dew. It shone through the hole in the roof of the porch and Pete had nearly stepped directly into it, forcing his mouth to stay closed so he could hold in a surprised scream.

 

Thankfully the screen of the porch blocked most of the light, making it dim and safer for Pete, but that wouldn’t help him drag the body to the old dumpsite.

 

“Well shit,” Pete looked down at Anthony, whose blood was already drying, then back at the kid sleeping peacefully in his chair. “Okay…” Pete closed the door, “Looks like we’re having a sleepover.”

 

He set to closing all the blinds and searching for something to tie the kid up with. When that was finished, he looked through the kid's stuff.

 

His name was Patrick, his mom was an ER nurse or something, and he liked Stress Relief shampoo. Pete only knew about that last part because he took a shower, and washed his clothes in the laundry room downstairs. (Washing the load already in the hamper along with it because he was a nice guy like that.)

 

Patrick’s mom also made a _mean_ enchilada, which he ate almost half of with a fuckton of sour cream.

 

Then, he paced around the house, waiting for Patrick to wake up, and trying to fix his glasses with duct tape.

 

When Patrick finally decided to wake up, Pete was sitting on the kitchen counter, eating cookie dough ice cream with the biggest spoon he could find.

 

Patrick yawned loudly, trying to stretch before he realized his arms were bound to the chair. Terrified, his eyes met Pete’s in the dim light and he flinched backward, the chair squeaking against the floor.

 

Pete could hear Patrick’s heart leap in fear as he tried to struggle his way to freedom, so Pete wiped his ice cream covered mouth on his jacket sleeve and said: “Good Morning!” From a lack of better judgment, he smiled, showing off his teeth and chunks of cookie dough.

 

Patrick was frantic when he said, “Why are you doing this?”

 

Pete tried to avoid the subject and asked, “Where do you keep your umbrellas?”

 

This made Patrick stop struggling, he squinted, “What?!” He took a deep shuddering breath, trying to remain calm, “What does that have to do with anything? Why is it so dark in here?”

 

“I looked everywhere for an umbrella and I couldn’t find anything, I need one if I want to get out of here.” Pete feigned a dramatic sigh and leaned back on the counter. Patrick watched him with a possibly renewed sense of courage, Pete could practically hear the cogs turning in his head.

 

“Well…” Patrick squirmed, “If you untie me… I could show you where to find an umbrella?”

 

“No way man,” Pete turned on his side and rested his head on his fist, “That took me a long time to do, especially with just dental floss, I need time to bask in my success.”

 

“Floss,” Patrick repeated, as he seemed to have the habit doing, and looked down at the thin string that kept his body in the chair, “You tied me up… with dental floss.”

 

“Yeah, cool, right?” Pete set the tub of ice cream to the side and grabbed something from behind himself, presenting them to Patrick, “I also fixed your glasses!”

 

Patrick stared blankly at the square rims, the left lens was completely gone, in pieces somewhere, and Pete had messily wrapped duct tape around the nose. “Wow, thanks.”

 

Pete pushed himself off the counter and placed the glasses on Patrick’s face, where they hung crooked from his nose, “Now, where are those umbrellas?”

 

“Why do you need an umbrella?” Patrick asked, and Pete sighed again.

 

“Well Pattycakes,” Pete ignored the shocked expression that painted it’s way across Patrick’s face, “That’s actually a very long story, but since I don’t want to be here longer than I have to… I’ll give you the gist.” He stood straight and tented his fingers over his chest. “I…. am a vampire.”

 

Patrick stared for a moment, then said: “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

 

“Well, no--”

 

“I’m being held hostage by a psychopath, in my own home, and he’s going to kill me.”

 

“I am not going to kill you,” Pete rolled his eyes.

 

“I’m gonna end up like that kid on my porch!”

 

Patrick began to yell, incredibly loud, for help. Echoing through the house and resonating in Pete’s sensitive ears like twin gongs, until he couldn’t bare it any longer.

 

Pete grabbed Patrick around his shoulders, his black nails squeezing into Patrick’s thin pajama shirt and he yelled: “ _Shut up!_ ” His voice deep and growling. Patrick stopped, staring at Pete’s teeth.

 

He realized what he was doing and reeled backward, panting, wondering if it was the Lycan's blood still affecting him.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Pete turned away, ashamed, “I’m not going to kill you, okay?” Patrick was silent. “I’m gonna untie you, but you can’t freak out okay? This whole thing was some giant misunderstanding.”

 

A beat and Patrick said: “Okay.”

 

Pete turned back quickly and undid the tight string with his sharpened nails.

 

Patrick stood, rubbing his wrist and adjusting his glasses, giving Pete nervous glances in the dim light. “How do you know my name?” He asked.

 

“I read the note on the fridge,”  said Pete, “I’m not stalking you or anything.”

 

They looked at each other for a moment, and Pete felt extremely awkward for the first time in a long time. It was a gross, squeezing feeling that he only usually felt with the secondhand embarrassment while watching a bad Adam Sandler movie.

 

“Um,” Patrick pointed to the entryway, “There might be an umbrella in there, behind all the coats.”

 

“Thanks,” Pete sighed, turning to the entryway, away from Patrick.

 

He opened the closet door, pushing away thick winter coats and a knitted vest, for some reason, and pulled a collapsable umbrella from its depths.

 

“Pink?” Pete pulled the handle to make it longer, “Seriously.”

 

The tension in Patrick’s shoulders disappeared, “It’s my mom’s, you asshole, did you want an extra emo black one? To match that eyeliner? Because I think we’re fresh out!” Pete frowned.

 

“You don’t need to be rude!”

 

But Patrick wasn’t finished, “I could make a run to Hot Topic to get one, I think they’re kept next to the Bone Daddy Cologne!” Then he sucked in a breath, his eyes widening as if he suddenly remembered the possible threat on his life, taking a step back before Pete could maul him.

 

Instead, Pete said: “I get it! You’re stressed, so am I, I could tie you up again?”

 

Patrick shook his head and followed Pete around to the front door, “Um… why do you need an umbrella?”

 

“I already said,” Pete opened the umbrella with a _swoosh_ of rain resistant fabric and Patrick took a small step back, “I’m a vampire.”

 

Patrick mumbled under his breath, “Or you’re just some psycho who thinks he’s a vampire.” He winced, probably mentally berating himself about his big mouth. Pete swung around, leaning the umbrella on his shoulder and pointed to his canines.

 

“Would a psycho have _these_?”

 

Patrick took his act of nonviolence as a sign to safely speak his mind. “You could have just filed them down yourself,” He pulled a face, “Because you’re a psychopath.”

 

Pete shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Whatever,” He turned towards the door again, “Let’s just get this body taken care of.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“Do you want to leave him on the porch?” Pete eyed Patrick, who stared at the front door with renewed fear, “Let him stink until your mom gets home?”

 

Patrick slowly shook his head, _no._

 

“Okay then, get some garbage bags, or a tarp or something to put him on when I drag him in and…” Pete thought for a second, “Some hydrogen peroxide I think? That cleans out blood, right? Cause I’m _not_ going to even _try_ licking all that up.”

 

“Why should I do any of that?” Patrick asked, turning away from the door.

 

“Because,” Pete grabbed the door handle, “In case you forgot, I’m kind of holding you hostage, and I got rid of all the phones while you were sleeping.” Patrick looked back at him, silent.

 

“I think my mom has some hydrogen peroxide in her bathroom.”

 

Pete snapped a finger gun in his direction and braced the umbrella in front of himself, towards the door.

 

Patrick grabbed some trash bags from under the sink.

 

Then Pete flung the door open, blocking the sunlight coming from the hole in the roof, casting pink colored shadows onto the porch. He eyed Anthony’s body, which appeared even more gruesome in daylight, He gulped, trying not to think of the disgusting feelings the Lycan's blood had given him, the feeling of power and control, it made him queasy. He sighed heavily, then maneuvered the umbrella so he could get closer, trying to keep the front door open with his foot.

 

“Okay!” Patrick called from inside, “I set the bags down!”

 

“Good!” Pete reached for Anthony’s torn tennis shoes, stained brown with dried blood, “Just don’t throw up or anything when I get him inside!”

 

“Oh god…” Patrick murmured. Pete grabbed the shoe and dragged him backward, one hand wrapped around the umbrella.

 

“Hey, hold the door!” He pushed it back and Patrick caught it, holding it open. Pete stumbled, off balance, and the umbrella ripped on the splintered wood of the roof, sending sunlight cascading into the porch. “Goddamnit!” He dropped the now useless umbrella and grabbed the body with both hands, trying to shield his face, which immediately backfired as it directly hit his face and caught on fire.

 

He screeched as his skin bubbled and he pulled the body into the house with all his strength, onto the trash bags Patrick had so graciously set down.

 

“Fuck!” He screamed, dropping the body, “ _Close the door!”_ He begged, dropping to the ground and grabbing his face. “ _Close the door!”_

 

Patrick slammed the door so hard Pete could feel the ground shake, and he ran to the kitchen as fast as he could, turning on the faucet. He ran back with a cup of water as Pete pawed at his face, trying to calm the flames as they circled around his eyes.

 

Patrick hesitated, then flung the water onto Pete’s face.

 

He sputtered and blinked, water dripping from his nose as he sat up, his cheeks stinging with third-degree burns, but already starting to heal. Patrick watched in fascination as new, fresh skin replaced the old.

 

“I-I don’t…” Patrick shook his head in amazement, “You were on fire…”

 

“Uh-huh,” Pete scratched at his ears, who were taking longer to heal, the winced, remembering his nails.

 

“You’re not even burnt anymore…” Patrick was white-knuckling the glass, “How…?”

 

“I told you,” Pete stood, looking at the broken body of Anthony behind Patrick, “ _Vampire.”_

 

Patrick took in a shaky breath and Pete took the glass from him, drinking what was left of the water. “So,” he turned to face Patrick, slightly self-conscious of the still unhealed burns on his face, Patrick’s glasses sat crooked on his nose, “You want to help me clean up the blood?”

 

* * *

 

 

_Father,_

_It pains me to say this. I wish I could tell you in person._

_But your location remains censored in all of your letters and I_

_have no one to turn to._

_Anthony has been killed._

_It happened during the entrance exam for the first class. I_

_am as surprised as you a may be, but don’t come back, you have to_

_remember to keep your mission as the first priority, just_

_like you taught me._

_I will find the dirt who did this. Mother will watch over me_

_as I get revenge for my brother._

_Your Son,_

_Dahvie_

 

**-Letter sent from a Holiday Inn to an undisclosed location and censored by The International Hunters Guild, Chicago Chapter, Chicago Illinois.**

 

* * *

 

 

Pete was lent one of Patrick’s mother’s floppy hats (in a rather disgusting shade of puce) and a balaclava from the trenches of Patrick’s closet, then, he zipped up his jacket and put on flowery garden gloves as if he was preparing for war.

 

Patrick let out a snort the second he saw him. Then they both went outside onto the porch.

 

Patrick swatted away at a fly and used his thin pajama shirt to cover his nose, and squinted at the large stain of blood that covered his front porch, wanting to look away but fascinated at the same time. He had also taken the time to don, to Pete’s confusion, a camouflage trucker’s hat that he positioned low over his eyes and matting down his strawberry hair.

 

They squirted to full bottles of the hydrogen peroxide onto the porch and it foamed and fizzed like a shaken can of Sprite.

 

Then, Pete took the garden shears he had found with the gloves, and cut into Anthony’s stringy muscles. Cutting him up to easier get rid of him, and maybe forget the stomach churning guilt building in his throat.

 

Patrick only threw up once.

 

Now, they sat in the living room on Patrick’s maroon couch, the TV blaring The Simpson’s. Patrick sat as far away from Pete as he could manage, taking tiny bites of rapidly cooling enchilada.

 

Pete slouched low, balancing the plate on his stomach, and groaning loudly when sour cream dripped onto AC/DC t-shirt.

 

“So are you…” Patrick hesitated, “Really a vampire?” He asks this as Itchy and Scratchy impaled each other (rather ironically) on wooden stakes.

 

“I don’t know,” Pete tried to lick the stain out of his shirt, “Do normal people catch on fire when they go outside?” Patrick looked at the lumpy trash bags leaning on the front door, which contained the very dead Anthony.

 

“Why did you kill him?”

 

Pete spits out his shirt and set the plate of enchilada to the side and thought about it for a moment, “I didn’t mean to kill him, that’s really the last thing I wanted to do.”

 

“But you did.”

 

“Well geez, Patrick,” Pete leaned forward, wringing his hands, “You really know how to make a guy feel guilty.”

 

“Pete.”

 

“He did something to me, okay?” Pete jumped to his feet, “Injected me with this crap, lycan’s blood! It made me crazy! Do you think vampires are _supposed_ to have these?” He thrust his nails forward to show Patrick, who reeled backwards in his seat, showing Pete his palms. “No!” Pete continued, “Now, because of this _asshole,”_ He pointed to the trash bags, “Everything is messed up! I can’t think straight! Two of the closest friends I probably will ever have don’t trust me anymore, I’m stuck with a kid who thinks I’m gonna kill him at every chance I get, _and_ he thinks _mutton chops_ are an acceptable style choice!”

 

Patrick stood, his fists clenched, “First of all, I am not a _kid_ , I’m seventeen, and second of all, you’re not exactly qualified to talk about style choice when you’re wearing eye shadow!”

 

“Have you even graduated yet?”

 

“Did you even _finish_ high school?”

 

“Hey! That is none of your business you… you Lunchbox!”

 

“Lunchbox?” Patrick spat, screwing up his face, “You know, I’ve been called a lot of names in my life, but none of them have _ever_ reached the level of creativity and wit that _Lunchbox_ must have taken you to create.”

 

“Did I _ask you to critique my insults?”_ Pete pushed Patrick back by his shoulders, and Patrick quickly returned the favor.

 

“You know what Pete? I don’t think I’ve said it before, but _I_ _hate you!”_

 

“Likewise, asshole!” Pete hissed, shoving Patrick back into the couch, who grabbed his plate of uneaten enchilada and threw it in Pete’s direction. Pete ducked out of the way and salsa and sour cream splattered against the wall behind him.

 

“I _hate_ you, I _hate_ that kid you killed, I _hate_ that you’re holding me hostage, and I _hate_ that you’re eating _my_ enchilada!”

 

“Oh!” Pete gestured wildly, “Something we agree on! I would rather be doing _anything_ else than be here! Burying that body, eating pizza, working at McDonald’s, _anything._ I can’t _wait_ to get rid of you!”

 

“I can’t wait to never see you again!” Patrick agreed, spit flying from his mouth, and Pete felt like punching in a wall until the doorbell rang and they both froze in place.

 

“Did you call someone?” Pete whispered furiously, staring at the door.

 

“How could I have called _anyone_ when you destroyed every goddamn phone in the goddamn house!” Patrick whispered back, growing louder with every word. A realization struck him, and he straightened, rushing to the door, a shout on the tip of his tongue.

 

Pete jumped, almost tackling him and covering his mouth and holding him tight to whisper in his ear. “You are going to answer that door, and you’re gonna act _normal_ and _then,_  we’ll never see each other again, is that clear?”

 

Patrick nodded, his eyes wide, and Pete released him, staying close behind as he answered the door. Patrick opened it only a quarter of the way, concealing Pete and the trash bags behind himself. He adjusted his hat and said, “Oh, hey Tyler.”

 

Pet heard a high, tired sounding voice come from outside, and he hoped the hydrogen had dissolved enough to be unnoticeable.

 

“Hey Patrick, your mom called us, said she couldn’t reach you, the line was busy or something.”

 

“Oh yeah… ha ha,” Patrick rubbed the back of his neck, “The phones have been bugging all morning, uh… What did she say?”

 

Tyler tossed something into the air, a basketball, and spun it on his finger, “She said her shift might go a bit longer, maybe the rest of the week."

 

“Really?” Patrick pushed Pete back with one hand, trying to bat him away, “Is everything alright, what did she say?”

 

“Yeah, everything’s pretty cool,” Tyler grabbed the ball, then smiled cheekily, “She says she loves _you_ more than anything in the _entire universe.”_ Pete could hear the blood rush to Patrick’s face and the tops of his ears and he had to hold back a laugh.

 

" _Wow, thanks, Tyler.”_

 

Tyler laughed, “Do you wanna come over and shoot some hoops, _my little bean?”_

 

If it was possible, Patrick blushed even more, “Please get off my porch.”

 

“That’s what she called you,” Tyler backed away, “I am only… _relaying_ the information to you as accurately as possible.”

 

“Well don’t ever repeat it!” Patrick yelled as Tyler made his way back across the street and back to his own house. He threw up one hand, giving Patrick a thumbs up. “I’m serious Tyler! I’ll… I’ll break your fingers if you do!” Tyler turned to blow Patrick a kiss, “You’ll never play basketball again!” Tyler waved goodbye, wiggling his finger and yelling across the street:

 

“Goodnight my little bean!”

 

Patrick slammed the door, red in the face. Pete grinned. “What?” He snapped.

 

“Your mom is right,” Pete smiles, full of mirth, “You are a little bean.”

 

“Shut up,” Pete crinkled his nose and glanced at the trash bags, “I’m going to get the febreeze.”

 

Somehow, Tyler’s visit had cleared their argument from existence, and they joined each other to watch the sunset through the back window in silence. They reluctantly shook hands and Pete apologized for eating his enchilada, “I can give you the number for my favorite pizza place if you want?”

 

“Please,” Patrick shook his head, “Please just get out of my house.”

 

Pete picked up the trash bag and threw it over his shoulder, “You got it, Lunchbox,” He looked down at his shoes, “Please don’t call the cops, I don’t even pay for my apartment.”

 

“I hate your guts,” Patrick said, and Pete took it as a sign he wouldn’t call the cops.

 

Smiling, Pete turned towards the front door, then hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob, “Hey, Lunchbox?”

 

“Oh my _god, what?”_

 

Pete turned to look back at Patrick, who was staring back, exasperatedly.

 

“You’re pretty brave, you know that?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“No, I’m serious,” Pete adjusted the trash bags on his shoulder, “A vampire accidently kills a guy on your porch and any normal kid would probably freak out and hide, but you start sassing me out and try and call the cops and you were pretty level-headed, that’s pretty brave in my book.”

 

“Uh,” Patrick pushed up his glasses, “Thanks, I guess… I still hate your guts.”

 

Pete snapped the fingers on his free hand, “Same to you!” Patrick quickly turned away, back towards the kitchen where everything had started. “Uh,” Pete looked out at the porch, “Tell your mom I’m sorry about the roof!”

 

“Never want to see you again, remember?” Patrick yelled.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete stepped out onto the porch, “See you later, little bean!”

 

There was no response, and Pete pursed his lips, “Right well…” Then, he stepped off the porch, into the cool, night air.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Hey little bean! Just calling to let you know that_

_my shift might run a bit longer, maybe the rest of the week._

_Nothing’s wrong, it’s just we’re having trouble with getting enough_

_blood so wait times are a bit longer._

_I’m not getting through to you so I might call the Joseph’s,_

_every time I call the lines are busy…_

_I hope you’re talking to a girl! Haha, anyway,_

_I love you, bean. Don’t have any parties while I’m gone!”_

 

**-Lost voicemail from Patricia Stump, ER Nurse, Chicago, Illinois.**

 

* * *

 

 

The air was fresh and cold, and Pete had to zip up his jacket to stay warm, still smelling the floral detergent from Patrick’s washing machine. Thankfully, the Hydrogen Peroxide had evaporated, but the smell of iron still lingered.

 

It made Pete nauseous in a way had never been before.

 

Lycan’s blood or no, he had still done this.

 

He made his way down the wooden steps of the porch, nervously glancing around whenever they squeaked, then cut across the lawn to the sidewalk. He could see Tyler’s house across the street, it’s window’s dark, and Pete let out a soft chuckle. “ _Little bean.”_

 

The streetlights flickered on as Pete passed underneath them and his nails tore into the bag. He dropped it in frustration and curled his finger, spitting curses at his blackened nails.

 

“Goddamnit!” He snarled, “Why won’t you motherfuckers go away?”

 

The fingernails didn’t have an answer.

 

Pete grumbled and gathered the trash bag into his fists, then made his way out of the suburbs.

 

The place where old vampires took their victims was a small park that no one ever seemed to find. It’s grass was turning brown, the trees were dying and swayed with every small breeze, and ravens swarmed, filling the air with black feathers.

 

By definition, it was off the beaten path.

 

Pete used to hang out under a small, crumbling stone bridge, back when smoking was cool.

 

He followed a small dirt path to that same bridge, past old benches eaten by termites and broken drinking fountains filled with leaves and tree sap. Leaves crackled under his feet, along with branches, and a raven flew from a dying spruce, sending feathers and more leaves into the air.

 

“Fuck, I hate this,” Pete whispered to himself, glancing around at the eerie shadows cast by the dying trees.

 

“Oh, hey man!” said a cheery voice from off the trail, making Pete almost drop the bag in fright until the voice showed itself, smiling. With eyes the blue of a neon sign that filled with mirth at the sight of Pete clutching his heart.

 

“Oh, what the fucking _fuck_ Jack! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

 

Jack Barakat laughed, “Good to see you to man!”

 

Pete rolled his eyes and kept walking, Jack jogged to catch up with him, his eyes almost glowing in the dark.

 

“So uh…” Jack eyed the bag, “I didn’t think you were the body burying type.”

 

“Yeah well…” Pete adjusted his grip, something that felt uncomfortably like a hand had been cupping his butt, “It was an accident.”

 

“Was it my fault?” Jack asked, concerned, “I have been a bit slow with deliveries lately.”

 

They passed a small, ugly garden, overgrown with weeds, and Pete could finally see the bridge where he had once tried to fill his lungs with smoke. He patted the bag, _Enjoy your final resting place my friend._

 

The bridge was constructed of cement and stone, and made it’s way over a dried up river that probably hadn’t had so much of a trickle running through it in probably sixty years.

 

“Hey I’m serious, I need to know,” Jack followed Pete to where the riverbank might have been, “I can hit you up right now!”

 

“It’s not your fault, Jack,” Pete swung the bag back around and set it on the ground, “The whole city has been a bit dry lately.” He dug through his pockets and pulled out a few crumpled up ones and handed them to Jack. “But, seriously dude it had nothing to do with you.”

 

Jack licked his lips and took the money, and for a moment, his blue eyes will reflect the moon.

 

He tried flattening the bills on his thigh and handed one back, “This one’s from 1978.”

 

“So first you act all concerned and worried about me, but then you care whether my money is out of date or not?”

 

Jack fanned himself with the money in his hand, “Money is still money, Pete, I’m a businessman.”

 

“You’re a drug dealer.”

 

“Same thing.” He stuffed the money in his pocket and swatted away a mosquito that had been buzzing a summer welcome in both their faces. “I hate June.” He grumbled.

 

“You think you can help me bury this body?” Pete asked.

 

“Oh, uh…” Jack scratched the back of his head, “I gotta… go get that blood for you,” He started to back away.

 

“Please? Come on, Jack?”

 

“Uh, no… I don’t think so, I mean I was turned in the seventies so I’m just not cool with all of…” He gestured toward the trash bag, “That.” Then he took off, running faster than any human could, leaving Pete breathless at his sudden departure. Then he was skidding back, “I’ll leave the blood at your apartment,” and gone again.

 

Pete let out a frustrated sigh, turning back to the bag and grabbing it by the opening, it ripped, spilling its contents out rather unceremoniously into the dirt. Anthony’s head bounced on the ground face first into some jagged rocks, gauging an eye and breaking teeth in the process.

 

Pete let out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak saying: “GrossgrossgrossgrossohgodIamsofuckingsorryohfuckohgrossgrossgross!” He turned away, then looked back at the head, Anthony’s one good eye glaring accusingly. “Don’t look at me like that! This is your fault!” His voice shook, and Anthony kept staring, until Pete looked away.

 

Thankfully, the rest of the body had stayed in the bag, easy to bury, and Pete pushed a hand back into the bag with his toe. Then, he breathed, staring down at the dirt, trying to psych himself up.

 

“You don’t have a shovel,” He told himself, “But… you have hands… Yeah, hands. People have escaped from prison with _spoons,_ you got this, you can do this.” He plunged his fingers into the ground, cringing at the feeling it brought to the underside of his fingernails.

 

“One big hole,” He flung a fistful of dirt behind him, “Come on, you’re a vampire, superhuman strength and stamina, that’s what we’re known for, fuck yes.”

 

He lasted ten minutes.

 

 _To be fair_ , he thought to himself as he stared up at the night sky, stained green from the lights in the city, _I got pretty deep._

 

The shallow hole almost seemed to say: _No you didn’t, you piece of crap._

 

It kind of sounded like Patrick.

 

Pete sat up, looking down into the hole, “Eh, it’s fine,” and rolled the garbage bag into it, smiling when it fell deep enough for him to bury. “Fuck yeah,” He remembered the severed head like a slap to the face.

 

Jack came speeding back with a bag of Cheetos, noisily smacking his lips, “Hey,” He licked cheese dust from his fingers, “Where’s your apartment key?”

 

“Um,” Pete closed his eyes, trying to remember, “There’s this notch in the wall by the floor, I usually stick it in there.”

 

“Okay, cool.” Jack took another Cheeto and immediately spit it out, saying: “Oh who the fuck?” Stepping away from Anthony’s head, “Oh jesus christ, fuck!”

 

“Yeah, that’s Anthony,” Pete nodded.

 

“I think he’s staring at me.”

 

“Yeah, can you… kick him over?”

 

“He’s not a fucking soccer ball Pete!”

 

“Well yeah, of course not, but just-” He gestured towards himself and swung his leg in a kicking motion, “You know?”

 

“No, oh my god, cut it out or I’m not giving you any blood.”

 

Pete huffed and stomped over, closing his eyes and grabbing Anthony by the ponytail and swinging him into the hole. Jack sucked in a breath, pulling a disgusted face and fondling the bag of Cheeto’s.

 

“Listen man,” Jack gulped, “I was only turned like thirty years ago and I’m not used to all this… blood and gore yet.”

 

“Well a normal person, might tell you to never get used to it.”

 

“And?”

 

Pete shrugged.

 

“Okay, whatever,” Jack shakes his head, “I've gotta go drop your blood off.”

 

“Hey wait,” Pete wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

 

“Oh… uh, I…” Jack shuffled his feet and said something close to the word: “mice”.

 

“What?” Pete grabbed a handful of dirt, looking down into Anthony’s ugly face, a beetle had fallen into his mouth, Pete furrowed his brow and looked back at Jack who had put on a stone face and was blushing all the way up his neck.

 

“I like the taste of mice,” The corners of his mouth pushed downward and Pete stared up at him in total bewilderment.

 

“You have got to be the weirdest people I have ever met, Jack.”

 

“Whatever, you’re the one burying the body.” Jack snapped.

 

“You know what, Jack?” Pete threw the handful of dirt in Jack’s face, “Just go drop the blood off at my place, I don’t need you here if you’re just going to patronize me.”

 

“Have fun,” Jack didn’t need to be told twice before he was gone, a soft flutter of leaves and an empty Cheeto’s bag the only hint of his presence.

 

Half an hour later, Pete wiped the sweat from his brow and headed home.

 

Past _La Noche_ nightclub and down the alley, back to his apartment. He shared the elevator with an old woman who smelled like small dogs and she stared at his dirt streaked clothes. He flashed her a wide, toothy grin when they got to her floor. She gasped and did the sign of the cross as the doors closed.

 

He approached his own apartment and stared down at his cute welcome mat that said: _Wipe Your Paws!_ Before entering.

 

He flipped the lights on, fully prepared to sleep into the next century, and was met with the horrific sight of Jack Barakat, stabbed through the heart with a wooden stake, leaking blood onto Pete’s already dirty couch. Pete gaped, open-mouthed, before saying: “Fuck!”

 

“Fuck!” He repeated, running over to Jack, “Oh my god, Jack!”

 

Jack didn’t need to respond, the stake did the talking for him. Pete hyperventilated for a moment, wrapping his hands around the stake and trying to pull it out. “I’m gonna fix this, oh fuck, I am so sorry, what the fuck!”

 

He tightened his grip, pulling the stake out with a heave that put splinters into the palms of his hands, and the skin and muscle around the wound popped and sizzled.

 

“Oh shit,” Pete breathed heavily as the blankness in Jack’s eyes disappears.

 

They blink.

 

The muscles around his wound struggle to heal and Pete stands as Jack’s fingers twitch.

 

Then, Jack takes in a shallow, rasping breath, trying to take in more air, he grasps the couch like a lifeline, desperate and terrified, his pupils dilate and meet Pete’s. “I can’t-” Jack gasps, motioning to his face, “I can’t-”

 

“Oh!” Pete leaps to his feet as tears pour from Jack’s blue eyes, “Wait!”

 

He rushes to the kitchen to open the fridge, pulling out a bag of blood and running back to Jack, whose chest continued to smoke and fizz. He kneeled and thrust the bag in Jack’s face, “Drink! Or you won’t heal! This isn’t like the sun, Jack just-” and Jack was ripping the bag out of his hands, plunging his teeth into the plastic. His eyes turned the color of charcoal and blood ran down his chin and neck. Pete had to look away as the smell of B positive filled the room.

 

Jack took in a deep, shuddering breath as the hole in his chest finally closed, leaving nothing except a red mark on his smooth skin. He licked his lips and glanced around the room for a moment before his eyes widened.

 

“Oh my god!” He clutched his chest and looked at Pete with wide eyes, “Oh my god! Pete! Oh my god oh my god oh my god-”

 

“Jack!” Pete grabbed his shoulders, “You need to calm down! Who did this? Jack, please, you need to calm down!”

 

“Oh god!” Jack whimpered, “You killed the wrong guy Pete, oh god…”

 

“Okay, okay, just tell me what happened, Jack, just tell me what happened.”

 

Jack took a few more shuddering breaths before opening his mouth to speak. “I got to your apartment,” he began, Pete nodded. “Then… I was putting the blood in your fridge, when I turned around he was climbing in from the fire escape, but not… _not climbing?_ It was like he was on the fire escape, then he was just _there.”_ Jack shook his head.

 

“What did he look like, did he say anything?” Pete asked softly.

 

“His face… it was painted, like for war, and… he had this belt with all these little containers on it,” Jack wiped his eyes, “He asked where you were and when I didn’t tell him, he got angry and he…” Jack wouldn’t finish.

 

“He what?” Pete pushed, “What happened?”

 

“I… I can’t-” Jack grabbed at his hair, “There was this… _fire,”_ He touched his chest, “I tried to run but he just threw me down and I couldn’t get back up, it was like something was eating me alive…”

 

“Did you see anything after that?” Pete asked, “Did he do anything to you?”

 

“I could barely see.. I think he started going through your stuff, and he was talking about… his brother, Anthony, and then,” Jack’s eyes widened, “Then I died, Oh my god! I died, Pete!” He rubbed at his chest, scratching at where the hole used to be and Pete grabbed his hands, trying to stop him from actually ripping it open.

 

“Jack! Jack stop!” He pleaded, “You’re alive now! It’s fine, you’re gonna be fine!”

 

Jack passed out around one in the morning, leaving Pete to go through his phone for the emergency contact: Alex Gaskarth.

 

“Hey! Is this uh, Alex Gaskarth?”

 

...

 

“Great! Uh, you know Jack right?”

 

...

 

“Barakat, yeah, blood dealer.”

 

...

 

“Yeah, I was wondering… um, no, no he isn’t dead! I’m just wondering if you could pick him up from my place? He’s passed out on my couch…”

 

...

 

“Well not exactly a party… uh, no he didn’t get in a fight… uh huh… yeah, Pax Apartments, 20th floor, I have a welcome mat that says… oh okay, yeah you’ll know it when you see it, okay, thanks.”

 

Ten minutes later, a tired looking, almost gray-skinned vampire was knocking at Pete’s door. “My car is out front, I’ll just drag him down,” Alex yawned, catching sight of Jack out of the corner of his eye, “Holy fuck, I thought you said he wasn’t dead!”

 

“He isn’t!” Pete showed Alex his palms, “I mean, he was-”

 

“What?” Alex snapped, rushing over to Jack, lightly slapping his cheeks.

 

“He’s okay now!”

 

“I’m taking him home before anything else happens,” Alex glared at him, then leaned over once again to hit him lightly, pushing his face side to side, “Jack… Jacky get up.”

 

Jack groaned, struggling to open his eyes.

 

“That’s right Jacky-poo, get up! We’re leaving!”

 

Jack tried to sit up and Alex grabbed him under the arms, wrapping them around his shoulders, “Alex?” Jack mumbled, “What are you…”

 

“I called him,” Pete said.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex cut him off, “We’re going home.”

 

Pete watched them trundle down the hallway, then turned back to his sty of an apartment. The screen on his TV was cracked, the couch was leaning on three legs and sitting at a tilt, his carpet was ripped from the floor, and there was hole in wall where he had flown backwards when he had first met Anthony.

 

Pete turned towards his bedroom, “Whatever.”

 

He washed his face in the sink, pausing when the toilet gurgled a dark sound. For a moment, Pete stared into it’s watery depths, toothpaste running down his chin and his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Then he returned to brushing his teeth, taking care not to scratch his face with his black nails.

 

It bubbled again, and Pete squinted, shaking his head to calm his nerves. “It’s a toilet,” He rolled his eyes.

 

He left the bathroom to go to his room and crashed on his squeaky twin size bed. His quilt a basic, faux fur blanket that fell off easy, and his pillow, limp and losing it’s fluff. He stared up at the ceiling, which was cracked from the time he had jumped on his bed too high.

 

From the bathroom, he heard his toilet gurgle again.

 

“Goddammit!” Pete threw the blankets off and fast-walked to the bathroom, grumbling all the way.

 

He stands in front of the toilet, hands on his hips, glaring at the porcelain commode. “What do you want with me?” He asks, the toilet doesn’t respond.

 

Pete unbuttons his pants, glaring at his toilet, frustrated with himself, and before he can push down his underwear the toilet seat rattles. Pete freezes in place, staring wide eyed, with his pants down, at the john. “Uh-”

 

Then it erupts, water hitting the ceiling and stinging Pete’s face.

 

“Oh what the fuck!” Pete shielded his face with his hands, squinting through the cracks in his fingers.

 

A hand emerged through the fountain, painted nails and weird, carved bracelets, reaching out for Pete, who batted it away with his free hand. “Go away, toilet… toilet demon!”

 

The toilet demon grabbed his hand, digging its nails into the skin on his wrist, pulling itself or Pete closer, he couldn’t tell. A face emerged, painted with strange symbols and an angry expression that told Pete everything he needed to know.

 

The fountain of water disappeared as Anthony’s brother stepped out of the toilet.

 

* * *

 

 

_Hope I make you proud, Dahvie._

_-Anthony_

 

**-Short letter addressed to Dahvie Vanity, signed by Anthony Vanity, 16, Chicago, Illinois.**

 

* * *

 

 

“Were you seriously hiding in my fucking toilet!?” Pete yelled, incredulous, his hand still being held tight by Anthony’s brother: The Toilet Demon.

 

“You killed my brother you sick fuck!”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” Pete yelled again, “Look!” He motioned to his fingernails, “He injected me with lycan’s blood! It was an accident!”

 

Toilet Demon didn’t care. “I will make you suffer!”

 

“Can’t I plead insanity!?” Pete pleaded with him, “Who made you judge, jury, and executioner?”

 

“This isn’t court you monster!” Toilet Demon opened one of the containers on his belt, coating his fingers in red dust. “I tracked his memories and found your home, and waited.”

 

“You’re pretty fast-”

 

“Shut up!” Toilet Demon yelled, and scraped his dusty fingers across Pete’s face, “I had to watch you tear into his body! You ripped his face first,” He snapped his fingers and Pete’s face erupted in pain, he screamed, clawing at his face as Anthony’s brother drug his fingers across neck and chest, muttering an incantation and snapping his fingers again.

 

His entire body seemed to catch on fire, and at the same time, he was excruciatingly cold, he could almost feel blunt teeth gnaw at his organs and at the back of his mind wondered how his neighbors couldn’t hear his screams.

 

“This is what he felt!” The brother roared, releasing Pete’s hand for him to claw at his face, trying to wipe off what was eating at his own skin. “This is what _I_ felt, you killed my brother!” This time he didn’t use magic to torture Pete further, he simply pushed Pete back by the shoulders into his bathtub.

 

Pete fell backwards, grabbing his shower curtain and ripping it off it’s rod and hitting the knobs with his flailing arms, turning the water on and eventually the shower on as well.

 

Pete’s throat was shredded thanks to his screams and all he could do was moan and writhe as every cell in his body seemed to be alight in white hot flames. The brother appeared, standing over him, placing a hand on Pete’s forehead, who kicked out his legs trying to get away, frantic and breathing heavy.

 

The brother muttered something in Latin, Pete could barely hear over the white noise in his head. Images flashed to his mind as the brother held his fingers to Pete’s forehead.

 

His parents, most likely dead by now, friends back in 1955 who would never remember him, Calum and Luke, Michael, Jack and Alex, and finally Patrick. The brother tilted his head.

 

“Just k-” Pete gasped, his eyes growing cloudy with tears, “Kill-”

 

“Kill you?” The brother asked, frowning, “That’s too nice, You took my brother you… you- there aren’t words to describe the scum you are, but I’ll do something worse than kill you,” He leaned in close, “I’ll make you _suffer.”_

 

Then he was gone, disappearing through the window and into the night, leaving Pete writhing in his own bathtub, water hitting his face and making it hard to breath. His pain was indescribable, until the only relief came from finally passing out, wrapped in a dirty shower curtain, water mixing with tears.

 

He awoke that afternoon, the water turned cold and soaking him to the bone.

 

The dust had washed off, or had just worn off, leaving him throbbing and weak. Every part of his body shaking and twitching almost uncontrollably. He opened his eyes, slowly at first, afraid to see what was on the other side, until they flew open, the first word out of his mouth being: “ _Patrick.”_

 

He sat up as fast as he could, turning off the water and untangling himself from his shower curtain with clumsy fingers and shaking arms, almost tripping over his pants still around his ankles. Water fell from his body, making puddles around his feet.

 

“Oh no, oh no, oh no no no no,” He struggled to put on a fresh pair jeans through his trembling fingers, throbbing and red. His breathing grew heavier and heavier until he had to lean against the wall, dizzy and nauseous, the room settling at a tilt as the smell of dry B Positive wafted through the halls of his tiny apartment.

 

Barely dressed, he slid along the walls, woozy and blinking in the afternoon light. His refrigerator seemed miles away until he almost fell onto its white doors, pulling it open with the strength he had left. The blood bag, slumping against the side of his fridge seemed to welcome him with a nonchalant, _“Hey,”_ Before he tore into it with black fingernails and sharp, double-edged teeth, his eyes seemed to roll backwards into his head as he collapsed onto the tiled floor.

 

Blood leaked into a puddle on the floor as he sucked the bag dry. The throbbing disappeared and his shuddering limbs stopped in their quaking, his adrenaline from earlier reappeared, and for the second time since he had woken up he said: “Patrick!”

 

He wasn’t sure how he had known, maybe it was how the Brother had gone through his thoughts, or how he had said he would make Pete suffer, but he was going after Patrick.

 

“We’re not even that close!” Pete whispered, shoving his legs into a new pair of skinny jeans not covered in blood or water.

 

 _Then why do you care?_ Some asshole (himself) asked from the back of his mind.

 

“Because he’s some innocent, piece of shit high schooler,” Pete growled, shoving his arm into a Metallica t-shirt, “Who got involved with an even bigger piece of shit vampire who didn’t even graduate, and now he’s gonna get killed by some freak who probably thinks he helped me murder a guy!”

 

He zipped up his red jacket, swallowing his fear of the pain from last night, “Gotta help Lunchbox, gotta help Lunchbox…”

 

The late afternoon sun peeked through his blinds and he let out a shaking breath, and with heavy fingers called a cab on a cheap, disposable phone.

 

He left his building with his head down and his hands in his pockets, climbing into the backseat. “Where to?” asked the driver, gruff and tired.

 

“Uh, downtown, residential areas, and hey,” Pete tapped on the driver’s shoulder, who turned around to look Pete in the eye, “I don’t need to pay.” The driver nodded slowly, turning back to face forward and putting the car in gear in an almost robotic manner.

 

Clouds covered the sun as the drive went on, it did little to calm Pete’s nerves which he tried to ease by bouncing his leg up and down or tapping his fingers on his thigh.

 

“Can’t we go any faster?” He asked, and the driver put the cab just above the legal limit. They hit the suburbs as the sun began its descent into night, and Pete had to give shaky directions from the landmarks he had seen flying over, until he finally saw a busted porch roof and light.

 

“Stop!” Pete squeezed the drivers seat and was almost flung forward when the driver slammed the brakes. He clambered out, turning to the driver before he closed the door he said: “Forget me.”

 

The driver nodded and peeled out of the neighborhood leaving Pete behind.

 

He hesitated in Patrick’s driveway, nervous to what he might find.

 

Would he find his body, laying on the porch like Anthony had, or would he be fine? Annoyed that he would have to see Pete again, but otherwise unharmed. But the feeling Pete had gotten when he had woken had been unreal, and what had the brother been doing digging through his memories if he hadn’t wanted to hurt someone?

 

He climbed the steps to the porch and swung the door open, holding his breath and turning to see the dark stain where Anthony had lain the night before.

 

Nothing.

 

Pete sighed in relief, then rang the doorbell.

 

The muted sound of footsteps and Patrick was looking through the peephole.

 

“What the _fuck,_ are you doing here?”

 

“Can I please just come in?”

 

 _“No fucking way you freak.”_ His voice was high and disbelieving.

 

Pete nodded, “Okay I deserved that, but I’m serious, I think you might be in danger!”

 

“Not if I keep this door locked!”

 

“No! _Ugh,”_ Pete grabbed his hair, “Not from me! Listen, Patrick, that guy I killed? His brother came after me, and I think he might be coming for you.”

 

Silence.

 

“Patrick?”

 

“Why would he be after me?”

 

Pete let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, “He said he wants me to suffer, and I think you’re the only person he would be able to kill without getting in trouble.”

 

Patrick thought for a moment, then unlocked the door, opening it to see Pete in full, “I don’t want to die.” His face was taken with worry and confusion.

 

“Well I’m just making sure, he might not even come,” Pete tried to calm him down, but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

 

Patrick shifted his eyes to see behind Pete, then motioned for him to come inside.

 

This time, he was more hospitable to Pete, probably enforcing the manners his mom might have pounded into him when he was younger, even going so far as to offer him something to drink. Pete declined, standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room, uncomfortable now that he wasn’t holding anyone hostage.

 

“What does this guy look like?” Patrick asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

 

“Uh, he paints his face,” Pete swept to his fingers over his cheeks, trying to demonstrate what it might look like, “And… he has this belt? With all this crap on it, like,” He gulped, “This dust, I think he’s like a Warlock or something.”

 

Patrick groaned and put his head in his hands, “What is going on?” Pete frowned, “Am I going crazy? Have I finally snapped? Has high school finally got to me?”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“Vampires?” Patrick pointed at him,  “Vampire hunters? Warlocks? What the fuck is going on? Has the world always been like this, or is it something new?”

 

“I think it’s always been like this.” Pete answered.

 

Patrick sat down.

 

“Uh, hey it’s gonna be fine-”

 

“Just let this guy kill me,” Patrick sighed, “I’m ready.”

 

“No way man,” Pete sat down next to him, “It’s all my fault that you’re even involved in all this, I’m not gonna let you die, you gotta get that high school diploma.”

 

Patrick shot him a questioning look and Pete shrugged.

 

“I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately, I don’t know.”

 

“So… Do I need a weapon or something?”  Patrick asked.

 

“Do you have a weapon?”

 

Patrick shrugged, “Knives?”

 

“What kind of knives?”

 

“Steak knives?”

 

Pete nodded, “That could work.”

 

“Okay,” Patrick stood, “I’ll… get one.”

 

Pete followed, “I’ll lock the doors and stuff.”

 

It seemed strange that they were suddenly a team, working together even though they had been at odds only hours before.

 

Two hours later, the sun disappeared behind Tyler’s house, and Pete took two fingers and separated the blinds, trying to see any sign of the brother. Patrick flipped the knife between his fingers, trying to make it seem easy even though he had cut his finger only two minutes before.

 

Finally Patrick had had enough, “I don’t think he’s coming.”

 

“But what if he does?”

 

Patrick sighed, “He’s not, but thanks Pete, really, even though I hate you.”

 

Pete rubbed his eyes and nodded, turning to the door, “Yeah, you’re right, sorry I bothered you.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

Pete turned the doorknob and the lights flickered, and he whipped back around to see Patrick staring up at the lights, “They’ve been doing that like all day, it’s fine.”

 

“What if it’s not fine?”

 

“Jesus Christ get out of my house.”

 

The lights flickered again and a door slammed down the hallway, Patrick jumped and brandished the knife in front of himself, and Pete jumped backwards in surprise. “The wind?” Patrick asked, wide eyed.

 

“We closed all the windows,” Pete whispered hoarsely.

 

The lights flickered and finally turned off, from the darkened hallway, shadows crept up the wall and towards them both like clawed, ugly hands. The brother emerged from those shadows, and Pete had to take a moment to scoff at his theatrics.

 

“I’m glad you came to watch your friend die,” The brother turned to Pete, angry and unforgiving.

 

“Why do you want to kill me?” Patrick asked, holding the knife out in front of him with two hands.

 

The brother turned to him, “He killed my brother, and I couldn’t do _anything,_ I’m sorry but I have to make him suffer.” He reached for his belt and Patrick sputtered, trying to think of something to say.

 

“You can’t just kill me without telling me who you are!” Patrick grimaced and Pete nodded in agreement, the brother scowled and pulled a dark looking cloth from his belt.

 

“Listen,” The brother growls, “Either you,” he points at Patrick, “Or both of you are gonna fucking die tonight and I will watch your bodies burn!” He then threw the cloth, watching it spread wider and longer than possible, melting into the shadows and wrapping around Patricks legs. Patrick fell to the floor in a daze, hitting his nose on the wood floor and making it bloody.

 

“Ow.” He said, and Pete leapt forward.

 

“Patrick!”

 

He tried making a grab for Patrick’s arms, who flailed and scraped the ground, looking for something to hold onto as the shadows pulled him back into the darkened hallway. The brother threw red dust and for a moment Pete was on fire again, his skin peeling away and muscle tissue scalding and then it was gone.

 

Patrick screamed.

 

From where?

 

Everything was dark, his kitchen knife left on the ground, useless.

 

Then they reappeared, the brother, speaking in tongues, and Patrick, clawing at the floor, trying desperately to flee.

 

Pete tackled the brother, sending them both flying against the wall and sending cracks up the plaster. Pete growled and the brother pushed him off, pressing the dust into Pete’s shirt, instead of feeling the burning he feared, he was instead thrown backward, into the kitchen and crashing into the sink.

 

A pipe burst and water sprayed onto the floor and in his face.

 

Pete tried to redirect the spray, getting it in the brother’s eyes and making him lose focus, the shadows lost their hold on Patrick and in a moment of bravery he leapt onto the brother’s back, attempting to bring him to the ground. Pete joined him, ripping the belt and causing them all to fall.

 

They ended up close, lying in front of the sink and the brother across from them.

 

They stood, ready to fight again and the brother sneered, taking the last small container from his lost belt. Pete noticed the one he himself now held in his own hand.

 

“Ever heard of blood magic, you piece of shit?” The brother asked, “Because I’m gonna turn you into a monster, you’re going to kill your friend, and the rest of the hunters are going to kill you.”

 

“Uh, newsflash, asshole,” Pete hoisted the container over his head, making like he was going to throw it, “Your brother already tried that!”

 

The brother’s eyes widened and he began to mutter an incantation in Latin under his breath.

 

“Hey!” Pete squeezed the container and Patrick took a few steps backward into the kitchen counter, “I’ll throw it! I’m serious!”

 

“You’re dead anyway!” The brother opened his own container and thrust it in front of him, sending a yellow liquid flying towards them, it dissipated into the air and Pete began to feel incredibly nauseous.

 

Patrick stumbled forward, groaning, and in a last ditch effort to save their skins, Pete threw the container, sending it above the brother’s head and shattering against the wall behind them. The brother yelled: “No!” and a heavy, black fog descended on the room, surrounding him and eating its way up his legs.

 

At the same time, Patrick grabbed onto Pete’s arm, groaning and retching, “Pete, I-” He fell and Pete caught him before he could crumple to the ground.

 

“Patrick?”

 

“I don’t-” Then he fell through Pete’s grip, passing out on the kitchen floor.

 

The brother screamed, and Pete turned in horror as the fog engulfed him, flowing into his ears, nose, and mouth, finally closing around his face. The last thing to go was his outstretched arms, reaching out, trying to grab for Pete.

 

Then he could only watch in horror as the fog built up and expanded, swirling as if the brother had never existed, filling the room before condensing and flying towards Pete. He tried blocking his face, but the fog simply twisted and went _through his body,_ sending him flying backwards as the fog left through the cracked window above the kitchen sink.

 

Pete latched onto the counter, throwing up onto the tile, blood and something fleshy, he hoped it wasn’t Anthony.

 

He fainted next to Patrick.

 

For the second time in the last forty-eight hours, Pete woke with a start.

 

“Oh fuck.” He spat, and turned to look at Patrick, sucking in a breath and quickly reaching over to try and shake him awake.

 

“Oh shit, Patrick!” Pete shook his shoulders, “Come on man, you can’t die! You have to graduate high school!”

 

Patrick growled, and Pete leaned backward, “What.”

 

Patrick’s eyes shot open, revealing a yellow glow behind his irises and Pete leapt backward, “Woah!”

 

Patrick sat up and growled at him, revealing an even bigger surprise: sharpened canines, almost as big as Pete’s.

 

He made a grab for Pete, reaching with sharp nails and Pete stood to run. “What the fuck!”

Patrick roared.

 

Pete almost kicked the front door out, quickly shutting it behind himself. Patrick scratched and pushed against the door, ramming his shoulders into it, trying to break it down. Pete leaned against it, wide eyed and breathing heavy.

 

“Chains,” He said, “I need chains.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Mom-_

_I’m staying over at a friends house for a while so_

_don’t worry if I’m not home._

_Love you!_  - _Patrick_

 

**-Note hanging on the front door of the Stump residence, forged by Pete Wentz, Vampire, Chicago, Illinois.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments=Validation and the sequel is up!!!


End file.
